How dear to this heart are the scenes of my childhood, <br />When fond recollection presents them to view! <br />The orchard, the meadow, the deep-tangled wild-wood, <br />And every loved spot which my infancy knew! <br />The wide-spreading pond, and the mill that stood by it, <br />The bridge, and the rock where the cataract fell, <br />The cot of my father, the dairy-house nigh it, <br />And e'en the rude bucket that hung in the well- <br />The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket, <br />The moss-covered bucket which hung in the well. <br /> <br />That moss-covered vessel I hailed as a treasure, <br />For often at noon, when returned from the field, <br />I found it the source of an exquisite pleasure, <br />The purest and sweetest that nature can yield. <br />How ardent I seized it, with hands that were glowing, <br />And quick to the white-pebbled bottom it fell; <br />Then soon, with the emblem of truth overflowing, <br />And dripping with coolness, it rose from the well <br />The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket, <br />The moss-covered bucket arose from the well. <br /> <br />How sweet from the green mossy brim to receive it, <br />As poised on the curb it inclined to my lips! <br />Not a full blushing goblet could tempt me to leave it, <br />The brightest that beauty or revelry sips. <br />And now, far removed from the loved habitation, <br />The tear of regret will intrusively swell, <br />As fancy reverts to my father's plantation, <br />And sighs for the bucket that hangs in the well <br />The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket, <br />The moss-covered bucket that hangs in the well!<br /><br />Samuel Woodworth<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-old-oaken-bucket-2/
